“What about Adam?”
“Adam?” The question had hurtled toward her like a comet out of nowhere. “What about him?”
“He’s in love with you.”
Vicky took a moment, watching the scene of the three of them in the hospital examining room unfold across her retinas. She and John O’Malley and Adam Lone Eagle, and Adam going on about how he wanted to take care of her. “I suppose he is,” she said. “In his own way.”
Vicky waited for the next question: how do you feel about him? She stared across the hood into the headlights streaming ahead. They had passed Hudson and were rounding the big curve toward Lander. A haze of lights glimmered on the dark horizon.
The question didn’t come, and finally, Vicky said, “Adam has opened his own office in town. He’ll continue to specialize in natural resources law. He’s helped a lot of tribes. Secured rights to water, oil, gas, coal, methane. He’s good at what he does.”
“So are you,” John said. “You’ve helped a lot of your people.”
And we’ll go on, she was thinking. As before, each of us, including John O’Malley, doing what we’re good at doing.
It was getting late. Only a few vehicles moved slowly on Main Street. The sidewalks were empty, the windows of the shops and restaurants dark. In the flare of the streetlamps, she tried to make out the time on her watch. Ten minutes to ten.
John made a right and drove down a side street, past houses lost in the shadows beyond the front lawns, past the dark shapes of trees and cars at the curbs. The three-story brick building loomed against the sky ahead, lights glowing in the glass-walled entry. John slowed the pickup for the turn into the parking lot and pulled into the empty space with Reserved written in black letters on the concrete curb.
Vicky followed him with her eyes as he got out and came around the front of the pickup. The opera was still playing, a soprano singing in Italian. She had no idea what the song was about. The door opened. “I’ll see you in,” he said. Still it took a moment before she managed to swing her legs out of the pickup and get to her feet, a sense of loss sweeping over her like a blunt and unforgiving gust of wind. Don’t hurry, she told herself. No reason to hurry away.
Under the ceiling light in the entry, he reached past her and pressed the elevator button. From somewhere in the building came the cranking noise of cables shaking themselves into action, followed by the dull buzzing sound of a large object dropping through space. It was then Vicky felt John O’Malley’s arms around her, reining her to him until he was kissing her.
The elevator door opened and she found herself stepping inside. “Do you want to come up?” she said, one foot placed against the weight of the door as it tried to close.
Without responding, John O’Malley turned and started for the door. She caught a glimpse of him walking past the wall of windows as the door folded shut.
32
THIS WAS THE life he had chosen. The words circled through Father John’s mind like a CD stuck in a track as he retraced their route through Lander, out onto the highway, down Rendezvous Road. He had chosen to be a priest, with all the rules and regulations that came with the vocation. A calling, he had always thought of his decision. What else could it have been? Growing up, he had never imagined he might become a priest. High school, college, studying American history, playing baseball, dating girls. Beautiful girls who went on—where did they go? Into their own futures. Marriages, children, homes, careers. He had always thought he would marry. Have some kids and a home, teach about the American Revolution and the Civil War in a New England college. It was the path he had been on, but then something had started to pull him in another direction, interrupting his dreams at night. Who will I send? The same question every night until finally something inside him had begun to respond, like Isaiah: “Send me, Lord.”
The lights of St. Francis Mission flickered through the cottonwood branches. The heartbreaking melody of “Ch’ella mi creda” soared out of the CD player.
God, help me. Oh, he had counseled many people who had been caught up in something stronger than they were, carried down a crashing river, unable to get their bearings, work their way back to the hard surface of the real and necessary. It happened; it was human. He had to laugh at that. What a great excuse. He’d had no right to draw her toward him, no right to kiss her. Vicky had her own life, a man who loved her, a future waiting for her. No right. No right. The thought pounded like a metronome in his head. A jumble of thoughts swirling about now: he had come so close to losing her; she might have died in the accident. But there was nothing—nothing—a priest could offer her.
The soft noise of the wind blew through the cab, muffling the sounds of Puccini. He felt as if the pickup and its noises were moving through a fog of silence that engulfed the rez. He tried to force his thoughts to what they had found in the girl’s apartment—he and Vicky. So many cases they had worked together, trying to help some Arapaho accused of some heinous crime. Always digging down, down, down to the truth. The truth in other people’s lives. He laughed out loud at the thought. What was the truth in his own?
The apartment. He had to stay with the apartment because that other train of thought was not one he could follow.
Sandra Dorris harboring two killers in her apartment, going along as they threatened Eldon White Elk, hoping he could lead them to collectors with a lot of money who didn’t care where the Wild West artifacts came from. Maybe even helping them keep Eldon White Elk locked up somewhere. Fleeing through the night now.
He had misjudged the girl, just as he had misjudged Trevor Pratt. He was losing his edge, accepting people at face value, believing they were who they seemed. Except that most people were who they seemed. It was only the few who weren’t, the practiced liars and actors and charlatans, but in the past, he had seen into them, felt something untrue and unsteady about them. When had that changed? When had it become possible that a man like Trevor Pratt could fool him completely? And yet, even now it was hard to believe that Trevor had planned the theft. Oh, he was one of the best. He had lived a whole different life and kept it secret.
But the girl? She was new at the game of deceit, inexperienced. He should have spotted something off about her. Taking up with a man twice her age because of what she might get out of it? He had heard enough confessions to know it happened. He pounded on the steering wheel. Why hadn’t he seen it?
He slowed past the billboard for St. Francis Mission, turned right and drove through the cottonwood tunnel, shadows of branches swaying in the headlights. His thoughts on their own path now. Cam Merryman, convicted felon, who had sensed the danger in the white men’s proposal and backed away. Robert RunningFast, like Sandra, falling for the lure of money. And Jason? Jason had believed in Sandra. He had done what she asked. They were a couple again, Jason had said, but taking it slow this time.
I’d keep staying at my mom’s. The words started like a drumroll in his head.
Father John cleared the tunnel and drove onto Circle Drive. Lights burst from Eagle Hall, but he could see that the men’s committee meeting was breaking up. Groups of men wandered down the dirt road that ran between the hall and the church. Others stood about talking and smoking, flicking red ashes onto the dirt. Pickups and sedans lined both sides of the drive and spilled into the field of wild grasses. He slowed past several men and waved, his thoughts fastened now onto Jason Gains. Staying at his Mom’s. A new thought hit him, like a fastball in the stomach that he should have seen coming. It wasn’t the imprint of Jason’s head on one of the pillows in the bedroom.
He felt as if a lock had snapped into place, and everything else tightened around it. There was so much more he hadn’t seen, even while it had played out in front of him like the action on a big screen, images clear and, when he thought about it now, obvious. Sandra Dorris working in Eldon’s office, her laptop opened at the side of his desk, the sad regret in her eyes when she left the office, the reluctance in the sound of her footsteps in the corridor. All of it clear,
but he had missed it. Not wanting to see, not wanting to believe. And the artifacts themselves? The words he’d read on the internet flashed before him: It appears the regalia had been hidden in a concrete vault deep in the basement of a condemned building.
He knew now with a cold certainty where the thieves had hidden the regalia. Before they left the area, they would come for them.
He waited until the driver of a pickup vacated a spot at the curb halfway between the church and the museum, then pulled in. In the side view mirror, he spotted Bishop Harry and a couple of men crossing the drive. He got out and headed for the museum, walking fast, running. “John!” the bishop shouted behind him, but he kept going. Taking the wooden steps in front of the museum two at a time, crossing the narrow porch, yanking his keys out of his blue jeans pocket.
“John!” The bishop’s voice again, shaded with bewilderment. Father John was about to insert the key into the lock when he heard the sound of his cell ringing. Oh, God. If they were inside, they would hear the phone. He unsnapped the leather pouch on his belt, found the Off button with the tip of his finger and pressed it hard. Then he inserted the key, stepped into the entry, and closed the door. A stream of headlights swept across the corridor, and lights from the streetlamps blinked in the front windows. He ran his hand along the wall for the switch, then stopped. If they were still here, he didn’t want to give them any warning.
He stayed close to the wall as he went down the corridor. The old floor was tighter against the wall joists, the creaks softer. The exhibition hall lay in the building’s shadows. The door to the office stood open, but the lights were off. As he turned down the back hallway, his breath caught in his throat and his heart leaped against his ribs. The back door that Leonard had just fixed hung open on its hinges. In the dim light, he could see crowbar marks along the edge. The frame was splintered. He forced himself to walk slowly toward the faint trace of light that flowed up the basement steps and out into the hallway through the opened door. As he started down the stairs, he could see the source: a pencil of light lay along the base of the door that led into the museum vault.
VICKY SAT ON the bench in front of the window, knees pulled to her chin. She sipped at the hot tea she had brewed and stared outside, trying to make sense out of what happened. What kind of line had they crossed, she and John O’Malley? She had let herself inside the apartment in a daze. In a daze listened to the telephone message: Annie’s voice, raspy with worry. Are you okay? What can I do to help? Call me as soon as you get in. I’m with Roger.
With Roger. The words uncurled like a rope in her head. Everybody was with someone.
She felt adrift, floating over the roofs of Lander, dodging the streetlamps that poked through the treetops. This was not what she wanted, this confusion, and yet, it was what she had wanted for a very long time. Now that it was here, that John O’Malley had allowed some part of his own feelings to break through the carefully controlled and logical exterior, she felt lost. Before this evening, there had been no possibilities, no different scenarios. Now everything seemed possible. She took a small drink of tea, then ran her hand over her cheeks. The moisture clung to her palm. She had never liked uncertainty; she had planned and worked hard for so many years. She had known exactly where she was going.
She closed her eyes and watched John O’Malley turn away again and cross the entry to the door. She saw him hurry past the window, and with the image came an understanding that brought such a wave of sadness she had to grab the edge of the bench to steady herself. Gradually, she began to recapture the sense of being anchored in her own world. This was not something they would ever mention. This was something to forget.
She forced her thoughts to Sandra Dorris, falling in love with Trevor Pratt and going out on a limb for him, agreeing to the whole outrageous plan of stealing valuable Arapaho artifacts. What had she dreamed about? That she and Trevor would leave together, go where no one would think to look for them? Or would they stay here, living on his ranch, confident no one would ever connect them to the theft? Is that what she had thought? Incredible. Such a terrible risk, and yet, love was a terrible risk.
Except that Sandra was resilient. How quickly she had rebounded! She envied the girl her uncanny ability to forget, to put the past behind and move forward after Trevor was murdered. She had held onto part of her dream. She had kept working with the two white men, intent on getting what she thought was coming to her. She had even taken Jason back. Keeping him close, beside her in bed, his head on the pillow next to hers, telling him she loved him, and Jason, believing all of it. She could almost feel the hunger in his eyes when he talked about Sandra. They were getting back together, he said. Taking it slow, but together.
Vicky uncurled her legs and slammed her feet against the floor. She jumped up and started circling the small dining area. From the counter that divided off the kitchen, around the dining table to the window, back to the counter. She made the loop again, trying to pull it all together. Four people had been sharing the apartment, the two white men in sleeping bags on the living room floor; Sandra and Jason in the bedroom. Where was Eldon? Handcuffed and gagged out in the shed? Possibly, and yet something wasn’t right; she was missing something. She circled again, once, twice.
What else had Jason said? Staying at my mom’s.
She stood still and gripped the hard edge of the counter, the realization hitting her like a meteor, threatening to drive her into the ground. They had been wrong, she and John O’Malley. They had grabbed onto what seemed logical, what made sense, even though it didn’t make sense. And he had realized it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like the Trevor he knew. Yet John O’Malley had gone along—with her.
She knew the rest of it in an instant, as if the bits and pieces of images had formed themselves into a photograph. The artifacts were stored at the Arapaho Museum. No other place would have been as safe. No one would look for them there. And the thieves would retrieve them before they left the area.
The last piece of the photograph snapped into place. John O’Malley driving into the mission, noticing something at the museum—a light flickering—and walking in on two killers.
She threw herself across the counter, grabbed the phone, and punched in the number for his cell. The sporadic ringing noise buzzed in her ear.
“Pick up,” she shouted, as if her voice might carry all the way to the mission. “Pick up!” The buzzing cut off, and John O’Malley’s voice was telling her to leave her name and number and he would return the call as soon as he could.
She jammed her finger on the end key, then called the number for the mission. A louder buzzing noise sounded this time, more confident. For a moment, she had the sense that he was at his desk, reaching for the phone. Then his voice again, the same instructions.
God. God. God. It was evening at the mission, meetings going on, the bishop probably in Eagle Hall, and nobody noticing the museum. Except for John, who would spot something unusual and would go to check. She tried his cell again, but there was no buzzing noise this time, just the disembodied message.
She punched in the number for Roger Hurst. Annie picked up on the first ring, as if she had been waiting for the call. “Vicky? Are you okay? Oh, my God, we heard about the accident. You could’ve been killed.”
“Listen, Annie,” Vicky said. “I have to borrow your car.”
“My car? Are you sure you’re okay to drive? I mean, I heard the ambulance took you to the hospital. Roger and I were on our way to Riverton when we got the news you were released, so I’ve been waiting until you called. I can’t tell you how worried…”
“Annie, I need you and Roger to bring me your car right away. Mine was totaled.”
“But should you…”
“Yes, I should,” Vicky said.
33
THE STAIRS CREAKED under his boots. He kept an eye on the door to the vault, expecting it to fling open, but it stayed shut. The pencil of light flickered. He reached the bottom of the stairs and started across t
he concrete floor. For the first time, he could hear the whispered voices, like the wind knocking against branches. A hurried note in the voices, a mixture of fear and elation. He waited for a moment at the side of the door, stung by the sense of violation. The mission was a place of peace and hope. They had turned it into a den of thieves. A hot flush of anger moved through him. He reached around, grabbed the knob, and threw the door open.
Three men stood frozen on the far side of the small room. A few feet away was Sandra Dorris, half hunched over a closed carton, a package of strapping tape in one hand. Flashlights arranged around the floor flared upward over their faces, like stage lights. Shock and surprise registered in their eyes; their mouths hung open. The opened cardboard cartons at their feet were leaking Styrofoam. One of the white men must have been in his fifties, six feet tall with curly steel gray hair, thick shoulders, and thick fingers that gripped the edge of a feathered headdress. Beside him, a thin man, younger, with brown hair and wild eyes and roped muscles that popped in his arms, was holding open the flaps on a large carton. He let the flaps drop and stepped back.
The other man, black haired and Arapaho, came forward, as if he had been in charge of the operation and would now take charge of the interruption.
“Hello, Eldon,” Father John said.
“Who’s this guy?” The big white man with shaggy gray hair dropped the headdress. Long black and white feathers fluttered over the top of a carton. The other man moved behind him, as if he were searching the shadows. Hol Chambers and Raphael Luna.
“The pastor,” Eldon said. “Let me handle this.” He locked eyes with Father John. “You shouldn’t have come here. Now we’ll have to take you with us.” From somewhere he had produced a small, black revolver, which he leveled at Father John. “Sit on the floor over there until we finish,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the concrete wall. The gun remained steady in his hand.
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